


warmth

by bokutoma



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-29 12:53:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19020316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bokutoma/pseuds/bokutoma
Summary: she is alive





	warmth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pocketcucco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketcucco/gifts).



She was  _ alive. _

To be honest, this was a situation Marian never really expected herself to be in. Between every time the Hawke family had packed up and left in the dead of night, Bethany and her father’s spirit lights the only thing to guide their path, the scrapes she and Carver would get into, skinned knees and swollen lips, and the sheer lunacy that was Kirkwall, she really ought to have been dead twenty times over.

When the Arishok had issued his challenge, she had accepted, not because she had thought she could win, but because she had no other option.

The salt tang of blood in the air had invaded her sense of smell, the Viscount’s head ranged and terrible where it had rolled into the crowd. She had almost thrown up her shitty Lowtown dinner, the eyes of the crowd too much to bear, but Anders had been beside her, lyrium laced with elfroot hands, and the thought of Bethany succumbing to these bastards (she had  _ respected  _ them) buoyed her as her head threatened to slip below the waterline.

Isabela had come back, and though Marian didn’t love her quite like that anymore, she was still as dear a friend as could be.

Too much had been lost to her. She would protect everyone or die trying.

The fight was a dance, one the Arishok led with powerful grace and terrifying precision. She knew two-handed combat, had sparred with Carver enough that she could pinpoint the weaknesses the style naturally produced.

The Arishok had had none of them.

That wasn’t quite true, of course; even living legends were men, fallible and flawed, but he covered each one so carefully that she had only second-long windows to strike. So, naturally, she did what she was best at.

She ran.

Years of travel had made her a hardy sort, and when matched with the speed her daggers had painfully instilled in her, she did not tire even as the Qunari leader lumbered after her like a bull enraged, she darted around columns and sprinted across the makeshift arena, with the heart-pounding, nervous surety of a rabbit.

When the Arishok clipped his shoulder on the edge of a column, panting with the exertion, the weight of both his blade and his own body, she struck, carving narrow lines that spurted blood like a macabre fountain the City of Chains might once have housed. Unlike her opponent, Marian did not bellow, did not make bloodthirsty promises. She just painted, her blades her brushes, Carver pushing her forward, Malcolm’s familiar scent in her nose, Leandra in her ear, Bethany the specter that appeared on the insides of her eyelids.

Her eyes met Anders’s from across the room.

Then something speared through her, hot steel forged in her blood. Only then did Marian scream, a note long and high and terrible.

She vaguely remembered burying a knife in the Arishok’s chest, the bastard collapsing with her still in hand. She had tried to remove the sword herself, but it was slick with blood that couldn’t have been her own; there was simply too much of it.

Still, the edges caught themselves on the skin of her palms, tearing them open until a warm, thin, familiar body had taken them, so gentle she thought she might break.

“Hawke,” Anders had whispered, even as Meredith wanted to stand on ceremony. Bitch probably hoped she would bleed out. “Hawke, you’ll make it worse, love.”

And she might have spiraled into shame right there - she  _ did  _ make everything worse - but Anders was gentler with her than she could ever be, and he still loved her. In the moment, that was all she needed.

She had sighed out from both relief and a peculiar sort of pain she didn’t quite feel, and then passed out, another pool of blood on the carpets of the Keep.

* * *

 

She was  _ alive. _

Maker damn her to the Void and back, she was alive, and she had lived through a battle that even he would have bet against her on. Anders had seen things that would defy even the most imaginative bard’s description, but the sight of Marian Hawke, a sword speared through her like a nightmarish Satinalia dinner, standing over the defeated Arishok would forever qualify as top among them.

He had thought her dead. With every second that passed, every breath she took through pale, parted lips, the hole in her body seemed to expand and flood, and with it, so did his heart.

She had laughed as the Arishok fell, though she didn’t remember doing it, and as she had slid to the ground, Anders saw the signs of death’s hand squeezing around her neck.

If it weren’t for Justice, he might have resorted to blood magic. The thought was petrifying, but the longer he poked and prodded at the memory, hoping that time’s brutal passage would breed distance from these new and frightening feelings, the more truth sank into his heart. Anders was a healer to his core, but he was also a man of intense passions; if there was a way he could have kept her alive if everything else had failed, he would have taken it, consequences, ethics, and morals be damned.

But she was alive.

He remembered the hysteria that seized her, how thinly it veuked the agony she was undergoing. Meredith wanted to make a  _ speech,  _ of all things, unfeeling bitch that she was, and, for the first time, he felt some kinship with the more...vocally against him members of Hawke’s surrogate family. Aveline had barked out orders the way he was certain she had straight from the womb, going as far as telling Meredith to shut up and start helping, while Fenris had looked to him for guidance, waiting for him to give his approval for her movement before he picked her up, cradling her in his arms, and navigated back to her Hightown estate, careful as he’d ever seen the elf.

Merrill, loath as he was to let her help, had insisted she be there for Hawke, and he could admit to himself at least that having a patient who wasn’t going to bleed out on him was a handy thing even if she couldn’t sustain it as long as he needed.

The Arishok hadn’t missed her vital organs.

He worked quickly, more focused, more precise than he had ever been in his entire life. Facing the Mother, the most terrifying creature he could even conceive of, had been absolutely nothing compared to the pain of Marian, unconscious for so long, broken on so many vital levels, but he could not falter, not when she needed him. Still, it was long work, even with a spirit inside him, and it took everything in him just to keep her organs together, mangled and slicked as they were.

He had passed out eight hours into the healing, over a day since he had last slept at all, and weeks since he had actually gotten any rest. He was malnourished, to say the least, but even then, his body hadn't stopped working. Justice was no great fan of Marian, but he had seen her work, seen enough proof that she benefited not just the people, but the ignored and the downtrodden.

Justice had seen the way she brought both joy and motivation into Anders’s life. It was not what he wanted - she was still a distraction from the greater goal - but, for the moment, it had been enough.

After a few hours, Anders had retaken the helm, and between the three of them, a spirit healer, a blood mage, and a Fade spirit, Hawke was rescued from immediate danger.

When they had done what they could, he had sat at her bedside, though Aveline tried to dissuade him. 

“You need  _ rest,  _ Anders,” she had said, and though his skin crawled at her commanding tone, he could sense genuine concern in her voice. “The amount of fighting and healing you’ve done tonight would exhaust anyone, and you hardly keep yourself healthy as it is.”

“No,” he had replied concisely, eyes never straying from Marian’s face. 

“You passed out trying to heal her!”

“I didn’t try,” he said. “I did.”

She had tried to protest further, even going as far as enlisting Fenris to join her side, but the Tevinter had surprised him and denied her any aid.

“Let him do as he pleases,” the elf had shrugged, and Aveline had stormed out, red with frustration. Anders had thought he would leave after that, but he lingered, white hair gleaming like the snow of Haring, until he spoke, and thawed. “You feel guilty.”

“No shit,” he had scoffed. “Just like every other person in Kirkwall should. We failed her.”

Anders had thought Fenris would draw this out, use this admission of vulnerability to lecture him on the dangers of magic, the curse of his birth, but instead, he had settled against the wall, the rare pained expression he wore throwing the mage off guard.

“I do too.”

“What have you got to be sorry about?” Anders had muttered. “You kept her whole, negotiated with the Arishok on her behalf.

Fenris had laughed, a quick, short bark that he had been on the other side of many a time, but where it normally was biting, mocking in a way that words could never compete with, Anders had realized that this was far more bitter, more self-directed. It burned him to identify with the other man, but he heard that from his own mouth more often than not.

“And you are the only reason she even stood a chance at survival. Don't be a fool. We both played our parts, but we could not be there for Marian when she needed us.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Fenris had glowered, and though Anders would have normally barreled on, something about today, the dawn of a new one without Marian’s cheerful, witty buoyancy, made him hold his tongue. “That was through no fault of our own.”

“How can you say that?”

“She was the only one who was basalit-an.” The way Fenris had said this, so matter of fact and sensible, made Anders want to argue, but there was an undeniable truth to his words. “I would have given my sword in her stead if allowed, but it was either her or put the city at rik, and she would have hated us for insisting on that just to spare her.”

“You say these things like they’re easy to swallow.”

Another laugh, sharp and full of self-hatred. “I hope to convince at least one of us that it is.”

With that, Fenris left, the weight of his words a heavy load Anders’s thin frame had a hard time bearing.

Still, Marian was alive.

* * *

 

She was alive.

That was the most batshit crazy thing about this whole ordeal, wasn't it? That she, Marian Hawke, daughter of a dead apostate and a dead noblewoman turned fugitive turned noblewoman, giant pain in the ass of any authority figure in a league’s range, had fought the bloody Arishok and come out of it  _ alive,  _ much less victorious.

The Maker owed her a million sovereigns for putting up with this bullshit, damn Him.

Every part of her ached and burned, and even the thought of moving exhausted her. Hoe she had even gotten gere, to her own house, to her own bed. It was dark outside, but instinct told he that this was not the same night she remembered; though smoke still hung in the air, it was thin, a bridal veil concealing the city from the light of the moons. She wondered how long she’d been out, but the thought was fleeting. It didn’t particularly matter, and really, she should probably send the Arishok her thanks for allowing her to sleep without fitfulness or nightmares.

She tried to shift, if only to relieve herself of the sticky heat of sweat that had collected while she slept, but everything in her screeched in protest. Sighting, she flopped back, counting miniscule cracks in the ceiling like stars.

The door creaked open, and when she tried to lift her head to look, she was met with a familiar voice, laced with relieved exasperation.

“Marian, stop rolling around like a mabari in the mud. You’ll pop a stitch, and then I’ll gladly watch you bleed out.”

Unbidden, a grin stretched across her face and slid into its familiar curl. “You’d miss me,” she said, like the pain of every injury wasn’t tearing her apart.

For the moment, it wasn’t.

Anders finally came into view, gathering small tufts of hair that had escaped its tie as he sat on the other side of the bed. For a moment, she thought he might cry, the wetness of his eyes shining in the dim light, but he merely reached over to thump her, finger finding perhaps the  _ only  _ uninjured part of her with ease.

She slumped even further into her bed (the luxuries of an Orlesian mattress) and pretended to swoon as best she could without moving.

“You’d hit an invalid?” she cried. “What a cruel man you are.”

As desired, he laughed and swooped down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “You, Lady Marian, are far too ridiculous for a woman who was bleeding out just yesterday.”

This sobered her, but not by much, and her hand quested investigatively toward the bandages wrapped around her middle.

“He really did gut me, didn’t he?” she marveled, pressing down even as she knew a wave of pain would wash over her - such was her morbid curiosity.

“Like a fish.”

Marian had worried that Anders would take this hard, require comfort and tender words, but he was jovial as only he could be, tinged with macabre humor, and the light of living.

“Bastard.”

He laughed again. “You’d think all the favors we’ve done him have earned us  _ some  _ points.” He puffed up his chest and squared his shoulders in a frank;y hilarious imitation of the Qunari leader. “But no, I am the Arishok, and one of my men stuck his spear so far up my ass that it can never be removed, not even by Anders, the sexy and scruffy healer whose talents know no bounds.”

And though everything still blazed, agonized beyond belief, Marian’s heart swelled to see him so full of joy and casual humor. There were things that needed to be talked about - he was undoubtedly masking the scare she must have given him - but for now, she reached up and brought his face closer with the strength that remained in her body.

“This,” Anders said, his breath fanning across her lips. “Is a very bad idea.”

She smiled mischievously. “Aren’t all my ideas bad?” she asked, then titled her face up to kiss him.

His lips were chapped and dry, but they felt like a homecoming against her, gentle and warm. The smallest tendril of hair made its escape once more and tickled her cheek, and the smile that overtook her mouth would have been impossible to deny even if she had tried. Every part of her burned, but the pain was something close to exquisite now.

She wanted - needed - to be closer.

Light, green and warm, snaked its way from his hands, to caress her in gentle strokes, too familiar to be clinical, and where it touched, sensation melted away, soothed by the expert touch of his magic.

“Marian,” he whispered against the corner of mouth, and the bruises she had were nothing compared to the ache that now resided in her. “My Marian.”

His was a pleasant sort of intoxication, comfort and love with the promise of tomorrow, even if it wasn’t something he could truly give. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine a warm bath, lavender scent and all-consuming, and it made her strain toward him, long for the love of him.

“My Anders,” she said, and summoned the strength to loop an arm around his neck and tangle her fingers in the softness of his hair. “All mine.’

She felt his grin, rare and all the more delicious for it, against the crook of her neck, and he left a gentle kiss there. Before he lifted his head, she felt his fingers skate along her side, feather light, and a shiver ran down her spine, the satisfaction of pressing a fading bruise and the delicacy of a lover's questioning touch wrapped into one excruciatingly lovely moment as he continued to heal her.

“Yes,” he agreed, and she could taste the meaning behind that gentle assent, the emotion they were carefully saving for later. “Always.”

He lifted himself from her, and a witty line was already perched on the tip of her tongue, but he merely gained enough distance to smooth the palms of his hands over her battered shoulders, and she sighed, losing all forms of cohesive speech.

“You little temptress,” he laughed, the sound resonant and comforting in the space of her room. “I’m not in the business of risking further injury with my clients, especially when they’re prone to bad luck as it is.”

Another complaint rose to her lips, but he had guessed already, and he silenced her with one long finger.

“Unfair,” she muttered around him, but he merely brushed her hair back and adjusted himself on her bed.

“I wouldn’t say  _ that,  _ already.”

“I would,” she muttered, but then electricity arced against her skin, vibrancy tickling against the tenderness of her.

“Would you, now?”

There was a certain softness to the smug tone of his voice, an underlying fondness that lit a fire in her more than actions ever could. Sparks still snapped against her, working their way to sensitive places with expert precision. One bit against her nipple; she gasped and sighed, pleasure eating away at her.

A wry smile twisted his lips into a masterpiece, but Marian saw it for the happiness and care that it was. He bent back over her, so careful, and a wash of the magic that she had come to intimately know as his flooded every inch of her, smoothing away the reminders of yesterday. He kissed her, full and hot, and when his first finger entered her, the moan she let out was muffled against his stubble, a gentle burn spreading her, caressing her face.

Half numb with magic and healing, the sensations were like the first bite of an apple, delivering fresh relief. She wanted to be satisfied, wanted to drink of him, but even as he worked her open with well accustomed ease, she chased the end, chased  _ him. _

“ _ Anders, _ ” she whispered, eyes fluttering shut as he brushed a kiss across her jaw, gentle like no one had ever been with her.

“Yes, love?”

She had the strength to draw him closer, hand firm on the back of his neck, unbalancing him so he swayed above her. “I want to feel you, sweetling. All of you.’

He laughed, his thumb tracing the lines of her face. “Can’t. Healer’s orders, I’m afraid.”

A hot flush rose to her cheeks, and she caught her lip between her teeth. “ _ Fuck.  _ Break them.”

He worked his way down her neck, hands mapping her out like a thing long treasured, long loved. “No, darling, this is all about you. I can’t have you falling apart on me.”

And there’s a twinge of vulnerability in his voice that makes his caresses all the sweeter.

Even with all the hardship that had defined him, Anders was always soft when it came to her, and the ebb and flow of his fingers, uniquely his with the bumps and calluses of writing and staffwork, drove her to a peaceful finish, one more like the limbo between sleep and reality.

After, they laid there together, years of stress suspended away from them for one glorious moment, and when Anders laced his fingers with hers, Marian forgot that Kirkwall was still mourning outside.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for the commission!!
> 
> if you're interested in commissioning me, visit me on twitter @bIackwaII


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